


Wild Songs for the Inconspicuous

by blueskyscribe



Series: On Steel Wings: Tales of Vos [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: M/M, PWP, Plug and Play, Semi-Public Sex, Transformers Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing, irresponsible robo college students
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:47:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25029514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueskyscribe/pseuds/blueskyscribe
Summary: Sometimes the professor's droning on and on, and there's a stupid, cute bot in the row behind you, and you just want to get LAID, you know?
Relationships: Knock Out/OC
Series: On Steel Wings: Tales of Vos [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1749541
Comments: 8
Kudos: 16





	Wild Songs for the Inconspicuous

**Author's Note:**

> This is back in Knock Out's academy days when he was 1) a jet and 2) not calling himself Knock Out yet. (My headcanon is that Cybertronians rename themselves several times throughout life.) So yeah, he's called Vermillion in this. :)
> 
> This story takes place before "The One at the End", which is in the same continuity.

The lecture has been droning on and on and Vermillion has long since stopped caring about the treatments for hydraulic decay. His pede taps under the slim fold-out desktop that's too narrow to take notes on. Not that he has attempted such a thing. He's feeling jittery today—not bad, but restless. He's young and _his_ hydraulics are working just fine. _Run, jump, fly,_ his frame urges. But he can't, he's stuck in a windowless room deep in the academy, listening to the teacher drone as the minutes crawl by. He checks his internal chronometer and stifles a groan.

The lecture hall seats four hundred. On the first day every seat was filled, but it's a weeder class; the original number has been winnowed down to about two hundred students. The failures get shunted into lesser professions. Some of them aren't too bad—anesthesiologist, surgery hygienist—but Vermillion wants to be a full medic, a true medic. So far the tests have been easy. Usually he studies the night before.

He wishes there was a test today. Professor Sharpwing lets students leave once they've completed their test.

Maybe sitting near the back was a mistake. The teacher is little more than a distant splotch of lime on the lecture stage, made even less visible when he gestures for the student nearest the door to dim the lights. He starts a slideshow and Vermillion wants to lay back and expire because Professor Sharpwing always puts his slides on the school's datanet later _so why do they even have to be here?_

No longer paying attention to the teacher on even a superficial level, Vermillion leans his chin on his hand (gingerly; the desk where he rests his elbow is hinged, too much pressure will make it fold back into the chair arm) and lets his gaze roam over his classmates, a sloping forest of gleaming chassis and narrow wings stretched beneath him. Some are nearly strangers, others he knows. Flyfree is subtly lifting and dropping his wings in turn. Bluewing has his head on his desk, couched in his arms, possibly asleep. But Surgical Steel, in the front row, is leaning forward like Professor Sharpwing is unveiling the wisdom of the ages instead of pointing out tension ruptures on a slide.

Vermillion rolls his optics and mutters, "Suck up."

"Who's sucking?" The mech behind him is leaning down to mutter in Vermillion's slim white audial. "And am I invited?"

"Maybe," Vermillion says, then twists to look. 

The student in the row behind him is dark grey, a chassis so sleek it must surely be oiled, with striking cyan and orange lightning bolts etched on his wings. The edges of the designs are rough; his trine probably did it themselves with acid filched from the supply cabinets. A real bad boy.

"Like what you see, pretty wings?" the bot smirks.

It's a stupid come on, but Vermillion doesn't care. His frame is singing again, and this time its feverish litany is _Run, jump, fly, frag._ Trapped in the lecture hall, only one of those options is available to him, and by god he is going to take it.

The seats next to the grey bot are empty; when the teacher turns around to change the slide, Vermillion takes his chance and clambers backwards over the seats. It's not as graceful as he would wish but he makes it.

"What's your name?" Vermillion whispers, not so much because he cares but more to provide a mental distraction from the way his kneeguard caught on the top of the seats as he crawled over.

The other student stretches, letting his wing clink against Vermillion's. "Smelter."

Wow, what a badass. Vermillion guesses Smelter will be another empty seat before long. "I'm Vermillion."

"Pretty name for a pretty bot. You done this before?"

What an absolutely stupid question to ask a medic (or medic _in training_ anyway) in an advanced class. Vermillion doesn't bother to answer, just pops his side port without even touching it.

Not everyone can do that and he's a little disappointed when Smelter doesn't drop his jaw or look sheepish. But at least those yellow optics are heating up.

This isn't a situation that allows for foreplay, so they just snake their hands under the armrest and get to it. Smelter's fingers are long and tapered to thin points (and were the key to his admission into the medical caste, Vermillion guesses); he ignores the recessed insertion jack and goes straight for the flexible rubber petals protecting the receiving port, playing with the petals and sliding the tip of a finger under them. 

He glances at Vermillion, waiting for a reaction, but Vermillion is _not_ going to be an empty seat and some slagger two rows ahead just drew the professor's attention with a question, so he is doggedly staring at the stage as the old mech wheezes about recurring rust infections. It's not easy, ignoring his building charge, and Smelter doesn't make it any easier when he chuckles, digs his finger in deeper, and _pries._ Vermillion's vocalizer clicks as the coverlets spirals open.

The circuitry inside is already heated and the little dimples of biolights around the rim twinkle in the dark. Smelter slides his palm to hide them, but doesn't take up the invitation to delve deeper. Instead he catches one of the protective petals between thumb and forefinger, rubbing the edge gently before pinching so hard that Vermillion jerks in his chair.

There's so much he wants to do—bite, kiss, growl, shove Smelter to the floor and straddle him while demanding his pins—and he can't do _any of it_ and he wishes he'd just skipped class, even if old Sharpwing does take roll. But then he wouldn't have met Smelter, and he is clearly a bot worth knowing, and Vermillion hopes he won't get kicked out of the program _too_ quickly.

"Where's yours?" Vermillion asks, because yeah this is great, but Vermillion really needs that frag and he can't find Smelter's access panel.

Medics are spoiled for ports, it's one of the first upgrades they get and a major contributor to the stereotype that they're a caste full of sluts. (In Vermillion's experience, the stereotype is true.) So Vermillion gives Smelter a dubious look as those tapered fingers lead his hand to the upper rim of his cockpit. Really? He doesn't have something more convenient on his side somewhere? This is far too conspicuous for his liking; even as he pets the cover he worries that the teacher is going to notice him fondling the top of another student's canopy.

"He's not going to see," Smelter whispers.

Vermillion gives a grunt and rubs harder, a datapad clutched in his other hand, for appearance's sake.

"Or maybe he _is_ watching," Smelter suggests, smirking. "Maybe he's getting all hot under his plating, watching your pretty little servos—"

Vermillion rolls his optics. "Shut up and open." Smelter does, under Vermillion's prising fingertips; his coverlets fold back and Vermillion dips two digits into his port, scraping against the side of the well and drawing a satisfying shudder out of the grey jet. 

"Your fans turned off?" he asks, because Smelter doesn't seem too bright.

"Yeah," Smelter says, but the pause before he says it tells Vermillion he was right to bring it up. 

Whatever. The red jet manually disables his, too, and drags his fingers out of the well and down to the cable that is already peeking out of its recess. He checks the stage; the professor is turning to change slides, this is his opportunity. Catching the silver head of the cable between his knuckles, he pulls it out and down, ignoring the way Smelter's breath hitches as it unspools. He catches Vermillion's hand (oh, his _hand,_ their fingers twine together around the silver-hot cable) and roughly guides the jack to Vermillion's port.

The prongs sink in, click into place, and Vermillion wants to whine and arch; he settles for rubbing his knee against Smelter's as heat blossoms through his circuits with a pleasant throb. His cable is sliding from his side too, just as hot and eager, but when Smelter starts to pull it to the port atop his cockpit, Vermillion shakes his head.

"Your hand," he says, firmly pulling it down to seat-level. "Your hand is enough." 

A closed circuit would be a little _too_ obvious. As it stands, Vermillion might be able to play it off if they're caught. Claim he's sending Smelter a homework assignment or, or checking him for a fever or, or, oh _frag,_ Smelter's fingers are dipping into the jack, toying with his pins, and it feels good, so good.

"You're close already, aren't you?" Smelter's voice is right in his audial. "Barely plugged in and you're ready to come." 

That's a _gross_ exaggeration; Vermillion shoulders him away and doesn't deign answer. He's . . . he's concentrating. Concentrating on not panting, not moaning, not climbing over to straddle dark grey legs. 

Energy begins pulsing through the connection in earnest, surge after surge. The contrast between the charge lighting up his sensor-net and his bodily inaction is almost intolerable, but there's a certain thrill to it, too, a certain pride in his control . . . the way he just shivers when the edges of their wings scrape together, how he doesn't moan when Smelter strokes a fist down his cable, only gulps.

The energy builds and builds; Vermillion's squeezing his optics shut to hide how they flare and squeezing Smelter's cable, a hot coil in his sensitive hands, and he shuts off his vocalizer just before the overload hits.

It roils him but he manages not to move, or so he thinks until he opens his optics, now dimming from their fever pitch, and sees that he's clutching Smelter's cable up to his chest. He hastily lowers it to his lap and covers it with the datapad.

Smelter isn't done yet, hasn't peaked, so Vermillion slips a hand under the datapad and continues to play with the cable, slowly stroking its girth. The overload has left him lazy but the tension builds again as Smelter continues to pour into him. It's enough to tip Vermillion into a second, milder overload as Smelter finally comes, accompanied by a blast of hot air from his vents and a full-body lurch.

They sit there in the dark, panting. Vermillion is hyper-aware of the cable draped lewdly in his lap, still plugged into his side.

He tries to speak; his vocalizer is turned off. He turns it back on. But then he finds he'd rather float in the pleasant post-overload haze than say anything, so he just sinks back into his chair and relaxes.

The professor is still rambling, but his voice isn't so bad if you don't listen to the words. Like a meditation chant, almost.

"Hey," Smelter says after a few minutes. 

"Hm?"

"There's still twenty minutes of class left."

"Mm."

"Want to go again?"

Risky, far too risky. "Yes."


End file.
